


Apple Raspberry Pie

by okapi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alpha Greg Lestrade, Alpha Mycroft Holmes, Alpha Sherlock Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Crack, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Greg Lestrade-centric, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega John Watson, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Orgy, POV Greg Lestrade, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Rimming, Shower Sex, Spitroasting, Vaginal Fisting, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-25 02:49:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17716628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Lestrade stops by 221b to celebrate the close of a case, but there's more than pie on the menu.Sherlock/John/Lestrade/Mycroft. Fluffy cracky poly trope-tastic Omegaverse PWP. Lestrade-centric with a goodish dose of Mystrade in the middle of all the heat sex.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For my Fluff Bingo card Wild Card square so I chose another prompt from the same card (Insatiable).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chair sex. John/Lestrade. John/Sherlock/Lestrade.

Lestrade took the stairs two at a time.

“Bloody hell, that smells good!” he exclaimed. “Sunday roast on a Wednesday?”

John hummed as he carefully transferred a heavy dish to the table, which was set for three. Then he said, “It’s not every week that you—”

“We,” corrected Sherlock, who was stowing his violin in its case.

“—that _we_ solve such a case!”

Lestrade gazed at the feast and grinned. It wasn’t just the food that smelled good. Beneath the roast and potatoes and veg was the scent of content Omega, _unbonded_ content Omega.

When John returned to the kitchen, Lestrade’s eyes rested on John’s jeans-clad arse, but he was startled out of his moment’s reverie by Sherlock’s approach.

“Have a seat, Lestrade.”

Lestrade chose the chair opposite Sherlock’s. Just then, a timer dinged.

“Pie!” cried John triumphantly.

As John bent towards the oven, Lestrade’s eyes travelled once more to John’s posterior. He caught himself again and immediately glanced over Sherlock, who, more than anything, seemed amused. Lestrade felt his cheeks warm. Sherlock and John had an open relationship, but there was ‘open’ and there was ‘allowing an Omega to be openly ogled at the dinner table,’ and Lestrade didn’t think the latter was on, so he coughed and inquired politely,

“What kind of pie, John?”

“Apple raspberry. It should cool for a bit.”

The pie smelled good. John smelled good.

Lestrade wondered if one had to do with the other. He’d never noticed John smelling _bad_ , unbonded Omegas could, Lestrade supposed, never smell bad to an unbonded Alpha like himself, but he’d never noticed John smelling quite so…

…delicious? Must be the pie, Lestrade decided, and the roast but then perhaps John wasn’t quite himself for, after tossing an apron on the kitchen counter, he gave Lestrade a wicked smile and asked,

“Kiss the cook?”  

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. He shot a glance at Sherlock, who replied evenly,

“John himself decides by whom he is kissed, not me.”

Lestrade looked back at John and nodded.

John’s lips were soft and sweet. They pressed chastely, then pressed not-so-chastely against Lestrade’s.

Lestrade turned his seat and opened his legs, and John stepped between them, leaning in.

Instinctively, Lestrade curled his arms around John’s waist. He felt the weight of John’s hands on his shoulders as the kiss deepened. He opened his mouth and let John’s tongue in. Then he tilted his head and pushed his own tongue into John’s mouth. He pulled John closer, tilting his head again and moving his lips against John’s. Closing, opening, closing. Warm, wet, soft, wanting. Then he licked John’s lips, bottom then top.

It was a good kiss, one that Lestrade would have happily prolonged indefinitely. He gave a soft, bereft groan as John pulled away.

Lestrade suddenly realised his prick was half-hard. He realised it because John’s palm was rubbing the front of his trousers.

Lestrade was surprised and not surprised.

He couldn’t remember when a kiss, even a good kiss, had aroused him so, but the scent of contented Omega, _unbonded_ contented Omega was still thick in the air, mingling with that of the food. And that must make the difference, Lestrade thought.

John’s eyes were glazed, and he spoke with a soft slur.

“Not as long but thicker.”

Lestrade felt just a bit drunk on the whole thing, too, so it took a moment for him to understand that John was talking about his prick and comparing his to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock!

Goddammit!

Lestrade had forgot Sherlock was even there!

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade muttered, but when he looked over Sherlock was simply shaking his head and waving a dismissive hand.

“John’s pleasure is what’s paramount.”

Lestrade was relieved he wasn’t about to be garroted. He looked down at his lap. John’s hand hadn’t paused its rubbing, and Lestrade could not resist at least leaning into the touch. He wasn’t going to say ‘no’ if an Omega with an arse like John’s wanted to rub his prick, even if the circumstances were a bit, well, unusual. Nothing at 221B was conventional, was it?

“Would you mind if we delayed dinner for a few minutes?” asked John.

“Not at all,” replied Sherlock quickly.

Lestrade grunted because he could not find speech. He could scarcely allow himself to consider what he suspected was about to happen. He was about to make a concerted effort to find words, to ask John what in the bloody hell was going to delay dinner, when John turned.

Lestrade could not see John unbutton his jeans, but he could see John’s bare arse come into view as he pushed his jeans and pants down.

John slowly lower that bare arse into Lestrade’s lap, wiggled a bit, looked over his shoulder, and asked,

“Would you oblige me with a pre-dinner fuck, Lestrade?”

Lestrade would and said as much.

John stood long enough for Lestrade to get his own trousers and pants down.

They groaned together as John sat down again, sliding easily onto Lestrade’s prick.

“Good, yeah?” breathed John.

“Yeah,” agreed Lestrade, there were few things better than a tight, sweet, hot Omega cunt ‘round an Alpha prick, but…

But Lestrade was a bit concerned, now that he’d got himself into the situation, just how he was going to get himself out of it. The chair didn’t have arms. On one side was the table, which he could use for a bit of leverage but there was a great risk if he braced himself too hard, he might yank the tablecloth and send the whole feast crashing to the floor. Of his own strength, Lestrade could bounce John a bit, but as tight and hot and sweet as John’s cunt was, a bit might not be enough.

“We’ll bounce together,” huffed John, reading Lestrade’s thoughts in a manner Lestrade considered surprisingly Sherlock-esque.

But ‘bounce together’ was as good a plan as any.

Lestrade gripped both sides of the chair and bounced. John bounced, too.

They grunted.

Awkward, but serviceable. Tensing and thrusting up into John’s tight, sweet heat, then relaxing and crashing back down together with the obscene slap of skin-on-skin that stoked Lestrade’s lust.

Lestrade looked down. John’s shoes, socks, trousers, and pants were scattered about, and hands were on John’s buttocks.

Not Lestrade’s hands. And not John’s.

“Shit!” exclaimed Lestrade.

“Sherlock’s helping. Sucking me off, too.” John’s voice was strained. “He sucks cock so well. Mine’s, well, not as big as yours, and he can get the whole thing in his mouth…”

Lestrade pressed his face into John’s jumper. John was wedged between them, getting his cunt fucked, getting his pricked sucked, get his Omega needs satisfied by two very capable Alphas. He growled.

There was a low hum of reply to Lestrade’s growl, and Lestrade felt John clench hard around his prick. As soon as John relaxed, Lestrade thrust up and didn’t stop thrusting.

John was bouncing and tearing off his jumper and vest and throwing them somewhere—not on the roast, Lestrade checked—and babbling.

“Oh, God, yeah, yeah, don’t stop, no one stop, oh, fuck, love, I’m…”

John’s words died in a throaty groan as Lestrade pissed what might have been buckets of come up into him.

“Thank you,” said John, between pants, when it was over.

“You’re welcome,” replied Lestrade and Sherlock in unison.

John chuckled. “Help me up, Sherlock.”

As John unimpaled himself, Lestrade, like the ordinary Alpha he wasn’t, watched for the stream of come trickling down John’s thighs, but John fell back down before the urge was satisfied.

“Excuse me, Lestrade.”

John’s head nearly crashed into Lestrade’s, and Lestrade felt a sharp stab on his thighs.

Still awash in afterglow, he murmured a feeble protest. “Hullo, hullo, hullo, now, what’s all this…”

“Sorry,” murmured John, slotting his head beside Lestrade’s, then turning it kiss Lestrade’s cheek. “Won’t take long. He’s close.”

Lestrade wasn’t thrilled to be a part of the upholstery, but at least from this position he could see what was going on, namely, John’s knees being bent and held and a flash of Sherlock’s prick before it disappeared between John’s legs.

The look of concentration on Sherlock’s face was one Lestrade knew well from crime scenes.

“Long and lean and a slight, sinister bend to the left,” said John.

Sherlock’s lips twitched at ‘sinister.’ He released one of John’s legs, asking, “Lestrade, would you mind?”

Lestrade didn’t mind, but he only hand one hand to offer because, well, he’d decided if indulging in naughty proclivities was the name of the game, he might as well indulge in one of his. He had slipped his other hand under John, and one fingertip was now gently tickling John’s rim.

John turned his head again and kissed Lestrade’s cheek and cooed, in rather whorish fashion, “Yes-s-s-s.”

Sherlock bent forward. His eyes fell. “Playing with your arse?”

John nodded.

“Good,” said Sherlock before planting a kiss to John’s forehead. Sherlock then used his free hand to grab the back of the chair.

Good was Lestrade’s thought, too. Now there was slightly less of a chance the chair would collapse and they’d all tumble to the floor with the Sunday roast on top of them.

“Fuck!” cried John.

He was being squeezed like an accordion. Lestrade was being squeezed like a lumber room cushion. The chair was making wrenching squeaks that prompted Lestrade to fervently hope that Sherlock was as close as John had claimed.

But just as Lestrade was certain Sherlock would come, and they might get back to the Sunday roast., there was a cough and a voice said,

“Oh, pardon me. I smelled pie.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More chair sex. Sherlock/John/Lestrade. Mycroft/John/Lestrade.

“Mister Holmes,” said Lestrade, giving a nod as if he weren’t playing the role of human seat cushion in a pornographic film.

“Oh, Mycroft,” panted John. “Hullo.”

“I wanted to congratulate you and Sherlock on a case closed, Doctor Watson, and when I crossed the threshold, I was overwhelmed by the delectable aromas.”

Lestrade was certain they were through the looking-glass now because Sherlock hadn’t said a word or even turned his head toward the doorway. He was still thrusting into John, albeit at a much slower pace.

Lestrade decided to be the voice of reason. Really, there was ‘a bit not good’ and then there was whatever this was!

“Sherlock,” he said with mild censure.

“He’s just here for dessert,” grumbled Sherlock.

“Sherlock.”

When John said it, Sherlock paused. John’s hand went to Sherlock’s cheek.

Lestrade had to look away. What he saw on Sherlock’s face, the vulnerability, the frustration, the undisguised adoration, was not meant for him or for him to see. So, he turned his attention instead to Mycroft Holmes and said, conversationally,

“The case was remarkable, no? A group effort, of course.”

“So I gather,” said Mycroft in a way that made Lestrade blush and stop teasing John’s rim. Mycroft seemed to be forcing himself to look away from Sherlock and John, too.

Then Sherlock began to thrust again.

“The pie’s apple raspberry,” added Lestrade, feeling that really there was quite a few topics of conversation he could go through before things got awkward.

“It smells delicious,” said Mycroft.

As Mycroft’s eyes were now fixed on the fucking, Lestrade felt little compunction in letting his eyes roam over Mycroft himself. Lestrade smirked when he saw what had to be a growing bulge in the impeccable Saville Row trousers.

“Fuck!” groaned Sherlock as he came. He stilled for a moment, then pulled out of John.

Immediately, Lestrade felt more comfortable. “All right,” said he, releasing John’s leg and accepting the cloth napkin that was being pressed in his hand. “It’s time, I think, to…”

Lestrade was about to say ‘take a break’ or ‘have a snack’ or something equally banal but John was talking, and rather earnestly at that.

“He’s an Alpha, Sherlock. Mycroft’s an Alpha.”

“He’s a jam roly-poly in bespoke tailoring, John!”

“He’s an aroused Alpha.”

Lestrade felt the need to interject at this point. “Difficult for an unbonded Alpha not to be, all things considered.” He immediately went back to cleaning his hands as best he could with John still sitting on him.

“I’ve three Alphas, Sherlock—three Alphas whom I trust—close about me and horribly aroused. I’m horribly aroused. I’m open and naked and dripping with semen of two of you. I want to fuck you, all of you, Mycroft included. I want to be fucked by you, all of you. I think there’s a very real risk that I will…”

Everyone but John swore at once.

“…go into spontaneous heat,” finished John. “Oh, god. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The uncharacteristic anxiety in John’s voice went straight to the core of Lestrade. He dropped the napkin and began caressing John’s back and kissing him and whispering, “It’s all right, John, it’s all right…”

Mycroft’s voice was stern. “Move.”

Sherlock sounded less like Sherlock than Lestrade had ever heard. “Things, lots of things,” he said nervously, “need to be done, Mycroft…”

“They will be done, Sherlock, but there is such thing as prioritising. Open for me, Doctor Watson, please.”

Lestrade heard the jangle of a belt buckle.

“Oh, my god!”

At John’s exclamation, Lestrade strained a bit to get a good look.

“Shit!”

Mycroft Holmes was hung like a horse!

“Fuck me!” demanded John. Lestrade’s hands immediately went to John’s thighs, supporting him as he bent his knees and spread his legs. A moment later, John’s head was thrown back and a prolonged groan filled the room.

“Oh, ye-e-es, yes, yes…”

“Better?” asked Mycroft.

“Much, thank you. You’re so fuckin’ big, My.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft flatly. Then he added, “I’m not planning to thrust yet. Will that be all right?”

“Yes. Just being filled is enough to make me less crazy. Sherlock, please don’t be cross. I _am_ sorry.”

“It’s all right, John,” said Sherlock.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade could see Sherlock pacing.

John smelled even better than before, like he needed Lestrade desperately, needed to fucked, needed to be taken care of, needed to be…

Insatiable. Insatiable need. That’s what John smelled like.

“Now, let’s see.” Mycroft fished a tiny mobile from his jacket pocket and begin to tap with lightening speed. “Heat quarantine needs to be formally requested. Next, my scheduled needs to be cleared for…”

“Forty-eight hours,” said John. “Spontaneous heats never last longer than a day.”

“Very well,” said Mycroft. “Forty-eight hours it is.”

“Uh, Mister Holmes?” interjected Lestrade with a cough.

“Your schedule, too, of course, Detective Inspector. I’m assuming none of us are such unconventional Alphas that we are capable of abandoning John in this state?”

“Never!” shouted Sherlock, and Lestrade shook his head. He couldn’t leave John. Every fibre of his being was demanded that he remain with John, regardless of who else was there, until…

…until this infernal madness subsided.

“As I thought,” said Mycroft. “Mrs. Hudson has just been informed she and a guest have won a four-day Mediterranean cruise that departs immediately. Anthea will bring supplies of linen and clothing at once. I think we are well provisioned food-wise.”

“Thank god I made a roast!” cried John.

“And pie!” added Lestrade, encouragingly.

“Well, anything I’ve forgot?” asked Mycroft.

Lestrade really had to admire Mycroft’s efficiency. Lestrade could be efficient, too, but rarely was outside work.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” said John.

“Not at all. Someone needs to take care of the important things.”

“Uh, well, if logistics are covered, could you move a bit now?”

“Of course.” The hand stopped tapping, and the mobile disappeared into the pocket. “Excuse me, Detective Inspector.”

“Go right ahead.”

Mycroft put both hands on the back of the chair and began to thrust. He still had on his jacket, tie, shirt, and even waistcoat. He was a handsome man, Lestrade thought, even with the thin sheen of perspiration that had just erupted across his brow.

As Lestrade’s finger began to tease John’s rim anew, Mycroft shot Lestrade a look and nodded his approval. Then he put his lips to John’s ear, and what he said was the last thing Lestrade expected.

“I’m going to split you in half with my big, fat cock, Doctor Watson.”

“J-j-john, please.”

“Would you like that, John? To ride me and be ridden like this? Held open and fucked and worshipped? To wake up with my cock inside you? And Detective Inspector Lestrade’s fingers inside you, too?”

“Greg?” suggested Lestrade. The title seemed to take away from what was otherwise an arousing bit of dirty talk.

Mycroft frowned. “Gregory?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s fine.”

There was a tell-tale pop of a bottle cap. Mycroft reached a hand out, then pulled it back.

“How remiss of me, John. There. Better?”

“O-o-oh!” mewled John.

“Stroking your sweet Omega cock, fucking your sweet Omega cunt while Gregory here teases your tight little hole. Later, if you’re a very good Omega, I’ll stick my tongue up there while—”

“FUCK!”

Lestrade felt the force of both orgasms.

* * *

“But, but,” John protested, “the heat quarantine will take some time.”

“A short time,” reassured Mycroft.

“But until the chemical barrier is established, any unbonded Alpha walking down Baker Street will smell me and,” John shivered, “invite themselves to the party.”

Another primal force stabbed at Lestrade.

“They can try,” he said, and realised Sherlock and Mycroft had spoke the same words with the same tone at the same time.

Mycroft stood up, then helped John to stand.

At last, Lestrade’s lap was free of fornicating parties, but, unfortunately, replete with goopy mess. Leaning heavily on the back of the chair, he got to his feet and grimacing, he pulled his pants and trousers up.

Mycroft had a strong hand around John’s waist. He motioned to Lestrade, who took over supporting John, while Mycroft set himself to rights as quickly and as well as was possible in the circumstance.

Then there was an angry banging on the front door that made Lestrade’s hair stand on end.

Alpha intruder!

Many things happened at once.

“Mycroft!” barked Sherlock. He threw an umbrella, which Mycroft caught in mid-air.

“You’re going to beat them off with your umbrella?” asked Lestrade incredulously.

Then Mycroft Holmes drew a fucking sword from his umbrella, and Lestrade just stared, agog.

“Sherlock knows bartitsu,” John offered.

“That’s not real,” said Lestrade.

“Yes, it is!” cried Sherlock, assuming an utterly ridiculous pose.

“Okay,” said Lestrade, thinking perhaps the Alphas would laugh so hard they wouldn’t see Mycroft’s sword coming. “I’m going to take John to the bathroom and get cleaned up while you two secure the eastern front, yeah?”

“Admirable plan,” said Mycroft solemnly.

“HI-I-I-YAH!” cried Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shower sex. Lestrade/John. Reference to Sherlock/John. A bit of Mystrade handjob.

It was extraordinary, Lestrade thought, just how quickly one could get accustomed to something. The first, and second, time he heard the shouts and crashing in the sitting room, he had instinctively wrapped a protective arm around John, who himself had started rather violently. But by the time the shower was running at full tilt and steam was filling up the tiny space, he and John were quite content to wash themselves and each other without comment whilst the raucous hubbub without carried on. They’d even looked at each other and giggled when they heard a scratching at the window of the fire escape and Mycroft’s spirited cry of ‘Eastern front!’ and then hurried barefoot running down the hall and the sound of an unknown Alpha thinking twice about following his instincts _wherever_ they might lead him.

Lestrade didn’t even notice when the din finally ceased for good. He was otherwise occupied with kissing John, lips, neck, and shoulders, while his hands caressed John’s damp skin. The cramped, sealed quarters only served to strengthen the scent of Omega in heat; the moist air was positively thick with it. Lestrade breathed it in and imagined that he could somehow taste his keenest desire on John. He began to lick in feral fashion and bent a little so he could grip John’s arse in two hands, kneading it hard the way he’d wanted since he’d first arrived.

“Such a great arse,” he growled.

John’s hands went to Lestrade’s prick, rubbing it gently.

“Greg, I need you to fuck me.”

Lestrade took a deep breath, drawing the intoxicating air into his lungs, and felt his prick stiffen.

He’d known he’d be fucking John in the shower from the moment he suggested a wash. Another inhale and John’s continued entreaties and petting and he was ready to go.

He turned off the taps so as not to have the unpleasant surprise of the hot water going off unexpectedly, then slid behind John and stepped as far back as was possible.

He gently bent a whimpering John very far forward. At once, John threw his arms out and braced himself against the wet tiles.

Lestrade glanced down at the edge of the tub, making certain the bottle of lubricant was still where he placed it earlier. Then he put one foot up on the other edge and one hand on John and guided his prick into John’s lovely pucker of a cunt.

“Yes-s-s-s,” sighed John. “Don’t wait. Don’t be slow or gentle.”

Lestrade’s thrusting was fast and rough, as requested, but his hand, the one that was not helping to keep his balance, was rubbing John’s back in gentle circles.

“Such a filthy cockslut,” he said softly. “Such a wicked tart.”

John choked back a cry.

Lestrade hummed and continued. “Not content with one cock, got to have three big ones, servicing you day and night, you greedy Omega whore.” He gave John’s buttock a hard, splashy slap, then slowed his thrusting and carefully reached down for the lubricant.

“No! Don’t stop!” pleaded John. “Don’t stop fucking me?”

“And if I do?” prompted Lestrade with a mock evil laugh as he slicked two fingers.

“I’ll sit on your cock! I’ll bounce on it! I’ll suck it! Take the whole thing in my mouth and make you so hard! Then ride you until I split! I need it, Greg! Please! You’re right. I am a filthy cockslut, a wicked tart, a greedy whore, all of it…”

Lestrade shushed him and wiggled a finger into his arse.

“O-o-oh!” moaned John.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade. “By the end of this, I’ll be fucking your arse while the other two take turns ploughing your cunt. We’re going to make a feast of you, John. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“YES!”

“But I’m a not a small lad, my filthy cockslut, so you’ve got to open that hole and let me stretch you a bit more. I’m not into tearing you more than necessary.”

John was gripping the taps now. He’d moved one of his feet to the edge of the tub, the better to lift his arse and wiggle it.

As advantageous as their positions were for fucking, Lestrade recognised at once that they were also extraordinarily precarious.

Best to get on with it, he thought.

Thus, without any preamble, he inserted a second finger into John’s arse and let his Alpha instincts run wild, thrusting merciless.

John threw his head up and howled. And slipped.

Thankfully, Lestrade had presence of mind to pull his fingers out of John and reach down and grab John ‘round the waist. He held him like a doll, relying on Alpha strength to hold them both up as he pumped stream after stream into John’s cunt.

“I’ve got you. That’s right, take it all, just like a perfect cockslut, every drop.”

Finally, it was easier to lower them both. Lestrade pulled out and loomed over John while John twisted onto his back and looked up through half-lidded eyes.

“Perfect,” he gurgled.

Lestrade smiled. “Yeah, you are. Now we’re going to need another wash, a real one.”

* * *

Both were wrapped in towels when the knock came.

“Bathrobes?” called Sherlock.

As Lestrade opened the door, his stomach gurgled.

“John, if it’s all right, I’m going to see about the roast.”

“Good idea,” said Sherlock as he handed bathrobes to John and Lestrade. “That’s the one thing escaped Mycroft’s attentions.”

“Really? Christ, I’m surprised. Lax, very lax. Well, someone’s got to see to the important things. Excuse me.”

As Lestrade closed the door behind him, he heard them.

_“The premises are secure, John.”_

_“So I heard. Thank you so much."_

_“You know, he’s not wrong: someone does have to see to the important things. So, how are_ you _?”_

_“I’m all right. He took care of me.”_

_“He took care of the Omega. Why don’t you let me take care of you?”_

_“Oh, Sherlock!”_

And with that, Lestrade’s thoughts, and his steps, turned towards the Sunday roast.

* * *

Lestrade wolfed down a heaping plate of roast, potatoes, and veg. He made a plate for John, then, a bit reluctantly, made two more plates, suspecting it was a thoroughly useless endeavour given that the Holmes brother, like some species of rare orchid, seemed to subsist entirely on cleverness and spite.

Lestrade wrapped everything carefully and, after checking the refrigerator for body parts, stored it all.

Then he strode over the fire where Mycroft was fussing about with cushions and pillows and blankets. The armchairs had been covered and pushed back. Along the border of a half-crescent space facing the fire there was a great bin of linen and an empty plastic-lined bin and even farther back, resting on the desk, there were a couple of hampers containing items like bottles of water and toiletries and pyjamas. Lestrade dipped a hand into one of hampers, then dropped a bottle of lubricant into his bathrobe pocket.

Lestrade was most surprised at the addition of an old-fashioned washstand, complete with basin and pitcher. Trust Mycroft Holmes, he thought, to bring an antique to an orgy.

All in all, however, he was very impressed. It seemed everything had been thought of, every preparation made.

“All this and you managed to drive back the invading army,” he remarked, gesturing to Mycroft’s handiwork. “It’s a very nice nest.”

“Thank you,” said Mycroft without looking up. He wore a dark green dressing gown and matching slippers. His hands were on his hips, and he began twisting back and forth. He paused and glanced over at the table. “And thank you dealing with the meal.”

“I made you a plate.”

Mycroft grunted, then nodded toward the hall. “Shall we?”

* * *

It wasn’t as awkward as it might have been: two Alphas standing in a hallway, waiting, listening to an Alpha and Omega having sex behind closed doors. John was making almost all the noise, and that was good.

It was making Lestrade hard.

He looked down and by the slight tenting of green silk, he saw that it was having the same effect on Mycroft.

Lestrade wondered.

He popped the top of the bottle of lubricant with one hand, slicked his other hand, drew the sides of the bathrobe just far enough apart to allow his prick to jut out, and began to stroke himself.

Then, without a word, he offered the lubricant to Mycroft.

And to Lestrade’s delight, Mycroft took it.

“O-o-of! You’ve a gorgeous prick,” breathed Lestrade when it was on display, as proud and stiff as his own. But bigger, Lestrade had to admit, much bigger. So big it made his mouth water. He watched Mycroft’s stroking for a few moments then forced himself to look Mycroft in the face and, when Mycroft finally met his gaze, he asked a question that might in certain circles, Lestrade knew, get him killed.

“May I?”

One of Mycroft’s eyebrows and one corner of his mouth rose. Then he gave a minute nod.

Lestrade turned and faced the wall, leaning on his forearm. Then he reached out and let Mycroft drip the lubricant on his fingers, fingers that he then wrapped ‘round Mycroft’s prick.

“Fu-u-u-ck!” Lestrade exhaled. It felt so bloody good. Pink and throbbing and leaking and wet. And hot, so hot. And thick, so thick. Lestrade stared so long he drooled. And he didn’t care. He wanted the prickhead in his mouth. He wanted to fall to his knees and make a fool of himself. He wanted to beg. He wanted…

“Gregory?”

It seemed as if it were being said for the second time. Lestrade blinked. “Yeah?”

Mycroft smiled a tiny, amused smile. “May I?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

But it didn’t happen because it was just then that the door to the bathroom opened.

“I made you a plate, two plates, one for you, one for Sherlock, said Lestrade quickly, covering himself and wiping his hands on the terrycloth of his robe. “Didn’t touch the pie. Didn’t seem right for me to be the one to cut it first.”

“The nest is ready,” interjected Mycroft, who seemed to have set himself to rights much swifter than Lestrade.

“Food and a nest!” cried John. “I’ve the best Alphas!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft/John. 69.  
> Mycroft/John/Sherlock. Oral & vaginal sex.  
> Mycroft/Lestrade. Anal fingering, masturbation.  
> Sherlock/John/Lestrade. Fisting, oral, come marking.  
> Enough to be going on, yeah? Hee!
> 
> I've altered the summary because the story I'm actually writing is a bit different than the one I thought I was going to write. I hope no one feels bait-and-switched (at least no more than I am feeling myself!). I'm going to keep the Lestrade POV until the end, and there'll be a bit more Mystrade than I originally anticipated.

Lestrade envied Mycroft.

John was sucking Mycroft’s prick, well, the half of it he wasn’t gripping with clenched fists, while he sat on Mycroft’s face. Mycroft was drinking heady Omega lust straight from the tap, as it were, driving John to whorish moaning and writhing and bobbing all the while plunging his fat knob into a hungry little hole. And there were wet, slurping noises emanating from both ends.

Lestrade envied John, too.

He wouldn’t mind at all taking a draw or two off that thick pipe and maybe getting his bollocks licked a bit for the effort. No, Lestrade wouldn’t mind that at all.

He was getting wonderfully hard just watching.

Lestrade was on one side of the tangle of bodies, enjoying the view while Sherlock was on the other side, bent forward, knees folded under him, kissing John’s back and nuzzling the nape of John’s neck.

He licked John’s scar, too, Lestrade observed, with undisguised ardour.

Mycroft squeezed John’s thigh, and John pulled off, pushed up, and crawled forward. Sherlock and Lestrade helped John impale himself on Mycroft’s prick.

John threw his head back and cried, “Fuck!”

But just when Lestrade expected John to begin bouncing, he didn’t.

He just pinched his eyes tightly closed and began to tremble.

Lestrade shot Sherlock, then Mycroft, a look of concern.

Mycroft pushed up onto his forearms, his brow knitted.

“John?”

“John?”

“John?”

Sherlock’s inquiry echoed Lestrade’s and Mycroft’s. He kissed John’s lips, John’s very chapped lips, and then John’s neck and then John’s shoulder, but the trembling didn’t cease, nor did John make any reply or movement. He didn’t open his eyes.

Lestrade ran a hand over John’s opposite shoulder. Then he shook his head sharply and got to his feet. He went to the hamper and found a bottle of water and a straw.

“Drink,” he ordered when he returned.

John did.

“I feel better,” said John when Lestrade took the empty bottle from him.

John looked a bit sheepish. He returned Sherlock’s nuzzle and mumbled, “Sorry.”

“No apologies necessary,” said Lestrade. “It’s overwhelming. I can promise you that none of us,” he gestured to Sherlock and Mycroft, “could endure what you’re enduring without going mad. But I suggest you let Mycroft finish then take a break. Eat something and drink two more of these.”

“Yes, John, please,” added Sherlock.

Their gaze met and John’s hand came up to caress Sherlock’s cheek. He kissed Sherlock’s lips.

“Yeah,” said John, then he looked over his shoulder, “Ready?”

Mycroft smiled. “Ready when you are.”

* * *

“You want to be me, don’t you?” huffed John with a wicked grin.

“You know I do,” said Lestrade. “Sucked and fucked, what’s not to want?”

John was bouncing hard on Mycroft’s prick.

“Such a size queen.”

Lestrade was in front John, holding his gaze, searching for signs of any return of the earlier weakness, and, thankfully, finding none.

Sherlock’s head was somewhat awkwardly wedged between them. As John bounced, he, no doubt, pushed into Sherlock’s mouth, and when he fell back, he was stretched by Mycroft’s thick member.

Mycroft gave a grunt.

Lestrade looked down and watched John’s hips buck.

“Christ, you’re sexy as hell, John.”

* * *

With assistance, John pulled off, and soon he and Sherlock were padding towards the kitchen.

Lestrade was hard, but there was nothing for it. Or so he thought.

Mycroft was still lying flat on his back. He motioned for Lestrade to come nearer.

With some difficulty, Lestrade did.

“You’re a bit of mess, Mister Holmes,” teased Lestrade.

Mycroft grunted. He was more disheveled and disarrayed than Lestrade had ever seen him, with a blissful expression on his face and a wicked half-smile on his lips.

Lestrade leaned closer. “What do you want, hmm?”

“To lick your balls while you wank.”

Well, Lestrade didn’t need to be told twice. He found the nearest bottle of lubricant and climbed aboard.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lestrade chanted, looking down at his own hand, but feeling Mycroft’s tongue. God, it was good, perfect, really, wet and rough and so eager!

Lestrade heard the pop of the bottle cap and glanced to the side. He leaned down and helped Mycroft coat the fingers of one hand. “Oh, God, are you going to…?” he asked.

But the question died when it was readily apparent that Mycroft was, indeed, going to tease Lestrade’s rim.

“Just one, baby,” whined Lestrade. “Just one, I don’t think I can hold out for more…”

Just then there a long whistle from the kitchen.

“Ride ‘im cowboy!” cried John, laughing. He and Sherlock were seated at the table with the plates of food that Lestrade had prepared.

Lestrade grinned and winked at John. “He’s occupying a minor but fucking beautiful position.”

It was wonderful, much too wonderful to last for long: Mycroft’s long finger buried to the knuckle in Lestrade’s arse, Mycroft’s tongue lapping like a hound at his balls, his own hand squeezing and stroking his prick.

Lestrade came hard, spurting like a bloody geyser for the first time in his life.

“Holy shit!” called John, but Lestrade was too gone to think of a cheeky rejoinder. He eased down Mycroft’s body, then lay atop him and nuzzled the side of his head.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered into damp hair. Lestrade’s chest was heaving and so, he noticed, was Mycroft’s. “Anything you want, love.” He kissed Mycroft’s sweaty temple. “I’m yours. You want me to suck you, I can’t take even what John did, but I’ll try, tongue-fuck your arse, anything…”

“No, thank you,” said Mycroft softly as he curled his arms around Lestrade in a rather protective fashion. “But I appreciate the offer. I’m even more of a mess now than I was. I think a shower is in order.”

“You want company?”

“Uh…”

“Don’t be polite, Mycroft.”

“No, no company. But, please, it’s not that…”

Lestrade nipped gently at Mycroft’s jawline. “No explanations. John isn’t the only one who is going to be overwhelmed before this is over.”

“Thank you for understanding, Gregory and thank you for…”

“Coming like a porn star?”

Lestrade felt the vibration of a chuckle in Mycroft’s chest. “Yes. It was something to see.”

* * *

Sometime later, Lestrade was pleased himself to see the empty plates and glasses scattered on the kitchen table, but he stopped when his eyes lit upon John.

“Fuck!”

John was in a plaid dressing gown now, which was open and barely hanging on his shoulders. He was sitting on the edge of the table, his head thrown back. His body faced Sherlock who was in a chair

John’s legs were open.

And Sherlock’s fist was buried in his cunt.

Lestrade moved directly behind Sherlock and stared, utterly mesmerized.

John was whimpering and making tiny movements, his heels on Sherlock’s thighs, his knees splayed as wide as possible.

“He loves it when he’s in heat,” said Sherlock as he twisted his wrist.

John howled.

Lestrade circled the table so he could lean over and lick John’s nipples and chest. “You begged for that fist, you filthy beast?”

“Yes!” cried John. “You and Mycroft. Got me so hot. I needed to be filled. I begged Sherlock. He said ‘no, take it easy’ so I shoved his hand in me.”

Lestrade licked down John’s belly, swirling his tongue. “But it’s not enough, is it? You want your boyfriend to suck your prick, you greedy whore? Suck your prick while he’s got his fist up in you?”

“Yes, oh, God, yes!” cried John. “Please, Sherlock, please!”

“If you want your prick sucked, you’re going have to suck mine,” growled Lestrade.

It was a small miracle that nothing and no one was hurt. Plates and glasses were dumped in the sink; still impaled, John was eased further onto the kitchen table; and Lestrade climbed atop it, ignoring the wobbly table-legs.

Lestrade grew harder by the minute, watching Sherlock, folded nearly in half, sucking John’s prick with his hand still between John’s legs.

A surge of primal Alpha need surged through Lestrade and he pressed more and more of his prick into John’s mouth.

“That’s right, suck it like your boyfriend’s sucking yours.”

John’s scream of release vibrated around Lestrade’s prick, but he pulled out of John’s mouth without coming himself.

Lestrade slicked his hand with the lubricant still in his pocket and proceeded to finish himself off.

Sherlock carefully eased his fist out of John, then joined Lestrade.

They both pumped hard and shot their streaks of come onto John’s belly. Then without even a glance at the other, they commenced to rub the mess into John’s skin, saying the same thing,

“Good Omega, good Omega…”

Lestrade gawked at what they'd done.

“Sherlock, you’re the luckiest Alpha in the whole goddamn world.”

“I know,” said Sherlock, looking down at John with a soft smile. “I’d be lost without him.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m dead instead of coma-fucked! I love you, too, you git,” croaked John. “Wash! Nap! Now!”

Lestrade giggled. “Demanding little bugger, isn’t he?”

As Sherlock and John limped together out of the kitchen, Lestrade noticed Mycroft. He was standing at the far end of the table.

Lestrade didn’t know how long he’d been there, but he didn’t give it much thought. He decided to occupy himself with re-wrapping his bathrobe and fastidiously tying the sash. When this was done, there was a moment of awkward silence, which Lestrade broke by asking, wearily,

“Any chance of me getting a drink in this place?”

Mycroft gave a nod and gestured to the hamper. “Whiskey?”

“Two fingers, please.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“My pleasure.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody, everywhere and everybody getting a bit overwhelmed. Vaginal sex, anal fingering, handjobs, a bit of anal sex, oral sex, rimming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping this story up next chapter. This is the last 100% porn chapter. Hope you've enjoyed.

Lestrade woke to Omega whimpering. His whole body stirred, and oddly enough, he was instantly aware of where he was and why he was there.

221B.

John’s heat.

Sherlock. Mycroft.

He opened his eyes to, judging by the undulations of the blankets, Sherlock easing himself atop John. They were all in a row on the floor in the makeshift nest by the fire. John’s eyes were closed, and he gave every appearance of being asleep, except for tiny noises that escaped his lips and a slight worried crinkle of his brow.

Lestrade knew the moment that Sherlock’s prick was fully sheathed in John’s cunt because John expelled a long, contented sigh. His expression softened, and then the noises ceased altogether, excepted for a steady, even breathing.

Good lad, thought Lestrade, fill him, fuck him, nice and slow, give him what he needs, but try not to wake him up. Not yet.

Sherlock seemed to have precisely the same ideas. The blankets moved up and down very slowly, and he nuzzled and licked and kissed, languidly and lovingly, at John’s neck as he curled up and back.

Mating. They were mating, thought Lestrade as he watched, and, God, it was hot, even though everything from the shoulders down was covered. Lestrade didn’t need to see Sherlock’s prick pushing into John’s cunt, didn’t need to see the lips of John’s cunt spreading at the intrusion, didn’t need to see the press of skin-to-skin, to know what was happening and to be affected by it.

Sherlock paused and shot Lestrade a look, then his gaze shifted to just beyond Lestrade’s shoulder.

As Sherlock bent to kiss John’s neck, Lestrade felt a pair of lips on his own neck.

It was only then that Lestrade realised the tremendous heat he was feeling wasn’t just a result of the woolen blankets. A nice, warm body was pressed along the length of him, too.

And now there was a nice, wet hungry mouth, too, feasting on him, licking and gently biting a trail from jaw to shoulder and back to jaw.

Lestrade tilted his head, pushing into the pillows and giving the mouth the longest expanse of skin possible. He arched his back and lifted his arse as the mouth moved and wasn’t surprised when he found himself fully erect and a large Alpha prick, equally stiff, nudging into him from behind.

Lestrade raised his chin and smiled and made a noise that was not unlike John’s sleepy, contented Omega sigh.

It was almost like a dream, a wet dream, of course, but a dream, nonetheless.

Under the blankets, a closed hand suddenly touched the curve of Lestrade’s hip. Lestrade immediately covered the hand with his own and brought it to his prick. The hand opened, then closed ‘round the base of Lestrade’s shaft.

Jesus Christ!

The palm and fingers were wonderfully wet and slick.

“Fuck,” Lestrade whispered as the hand began to slide up and down his shaft. Instinctively, his eyelids fluttered, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open, to watch John.

Sherlock was mounting John good and proper now; the blankets were sliding off his body as he rose up and thrust harder. His motions, Lestrade noticed with mild amusement, were perfectly synchronised to the fist that was pumping Lestrade’s prick.

This was the very best way to wake up, he decided, watching two gorgeous fucks go at it while getting his knob polished.

Lestrade rolled his arse back again and was rewarded with a splendid grind, a mock thrusting of a very large and very stiff prick into the cleft of his arse. He turned his head and reached a hand back, gripping the back of a knee and clumsily dragging a heavy leg forward.

Lestrade wanted more, so much more. That huge prick, for starters.

“Fuck me, big boy, fuck me,” he whispered in a breathy falsetto that he did not recognise as his own.

The reply came in an equally unrecognizable coarse baritone growl. “’Fuck me, fuck me.’ Such a greedy cockslut, such a needy whore. I ought to rent you by the hour. Keep you gagged and plugged and chained to my desk for whenever I need wet hole to split.”

The words went straight to Lestrade’s prick and he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning aloud. His mind was on fire. His body was on fire. He flopped onto his stomach. He writhed and bucked. The hand on his prick was forced to let go, but Lestrade didn’t care. He wanted to be mounted. He wanted to be fucked. Just like John. Filled. Just like John. He wanted the horse-hung Alpha that was on top of him to damn biology and common sense and shove that enormous prick up his arse, split him, gore him in half if he had to, and, in the end, to piss all that beautiful come all over whatever was left.

“Please!” he begged, but his plea was silenced by the pillows. He tried to get his knees under him, to lift his arse even higher, to present like a fucking Omega in heat.

Teeth sank into the ridge of Lestrade’s shoulder, and the grinding became almost painful.

But just as Lestrade thought his mad fantasy might be made real, a soft cry cut through the lust fog.

“More.”

It wasn’t him.

And it wasn’t Mycroft.

John!

Lestrade looked over.

“Greg,” said John weakly. The look in John’s eyes was one no Alpha could deny, not even an unconventional one. 

At once, Lestrade felt the weight on him disappear. He sat up. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered, and without even a glance behind him, he went to John.

The blankets were thrown off, Sherlock was sitting back on his heels, John was still on his stomach, and, as Lestrade moved closer, he saw a stream of come was trickling out of his cunt.

Lestrade mounted John, his prick sliding in easily. He put his hands on either side of John’s body and began thrusting at once.

John lifted his head and put his arms under him. “Yeah, thanks, good,” he grunted.

It was only when Lestrade had a nice rhythm going that he allowed his gaze to rise and meet Mycroft’s.

Hair disheveled. Eyes blown dark with lust. Skin flush. Prick erect and leaking.

God, he was wrecked. Wrecked but gorgeous.

Lestrade let one corner of his mouth rise in a half-smile; then remembering what he was about, he turned his attention back to John.

Mycroft gave a soft cough. “Doctor Watson…”

Now that was something to see. Mycroft crawled towards John with his prick in his hand. Then his prick was disappearing into John’s mouth, first just the head, then bit by bit, more. Spreading John’s lips very wide. Pushing in. Pulling out. Dripping with spit and…

John pulled off, something Lestrade wouldn’t do in a million years if he had Mycroft’s prick in his mouth, but John was grinning as he shot a look over his shoulder and said, with a chuckle,

“If you promise to shoot your load sometime this century, you can have a taste, Greg.”

Lestrade flushed and looked down. His prick was still hard and still buried in John, but he wasn’t moving. He’d been too distracted to fuck!

“Sorry,” he mumbled with a self-deprecating snort.

“Gregory?” There was a teasing light in Mycroft’s eyes.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, feeling his embarrassment vapourise at the sight of Mycroft looking at him like that with prick in hand. “Come here, big boy.”

Lestrade closed his eyes and was soon fantasising he had the whole bloody thing in his mouth, even though it was only a bit more than the head. With his attention divided, he could not take much more, well, not safely, anyway, and he didn’t dare risk injuring Mycroft or himself at this stage. Half of his mind was on John’s sweet cunt as he pistoned his hips, thrusting quickly and deeply, and the other half was on the gorgeous plug in his mouth. He sucked, sucked, sucked like a hungry child.

Mycroft made only one low, guttural noise. It was faint, but very satisfying.

“Gregory.”

Finally, Lestrade’s lust pooled and his body tensed and he came. He felt nothing but relief as his prick lurched and spit and his body emptied itself of all the tension that had been building. He swirled his tongue ‘round Mycroft’s prick before lapping at the slit, then pulling off to the sound of John’s pleasure.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh…”

“Better?” asked Sherlock when John was quiet. Lestrade wasn’t certain when Sherlock had circled ‘round but he was crouched by John’s head, stroking John’s hair with his lips by John’s ear.

“Yeah, better, but…” John’s voice was a needy whine.

Lestrade pulled out. He moved back, and Mycroft took his place.

“Oh, God, yes, Mycroft,” said John quickly, desperately, “Yes, fuck, he’s big, oh, don’t be angry, Sherlock, please. I just can’t stand being empty right now, not even for a moment…”

Lestrade had never heard Sherlock sound so, well, unlike himself. “I’m not angry, John, I promise.”

“Don’t go, Sherlock. Don’t leave me. Any Alpha in his right mind would, I know. I’m horrid…”

“I’m not going anywhere, John. None of us are going anywhere. And you’re not anything like horrid. I ought to know.”

“Very true,” agreed Mycroft genially as he thrust.

Mycroft’s arse. It was too much to resist.

* * *

“Oh, God! Gregory?!”

“Oh, God! Sherlock?!”

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft’s getting an arse-kissing he actually likes.”

John giggled. “Well, he’s definitely—oh, my God! fuck!—being a bit less polite about things. Don’t stop, Greg! It’s fucking awesome!”

Lestrade had no intention of stopping. His eyes were pinched shut, his hands were gripping and spreading Mycroft’s buttocks, his face was pressed tight and his tongue was extended, poking, wriggling, lapping.

And Mycroft Holmes was making noises, loud filthy, Alpha-fucking noise.

And it _was_ fucking awesome.

* * *

“SHIT!” cried John.

Lestrade pulled away. Mycroft pulled away.

Ignoring the gushing cunt, Sherlock flipped John’s on his back and swallowed his prick.

“Oh, love,” said John as he petted Sherlock’s head.

Lestrade tore his gaze from Sherlock and John.

“You are a very naughty Alpha,” said Mycroft in a rumbly tone that made Lestrade melt. As he moved closer, Lestrade turned ‘round. Mycroft slotted behind him and began to nuzzle and lick while his hands snaked ‘round Lestrade’s waist and held him tight.

Lestrade sighed and closed his eyes and held Mycroft’s arms in place. There were a few moments of bliss, and then John made a noise.

He was on all fours, and, really, Lestrade thought, it was a bit foul.

Reluctantly, Lestrade pulled Mycroft’s arms away and carefully got to his feet. He was never more thankful for the foresight of the washstand. He tossed wet flannel after wet flannel toward the nest, then held out of the plastic-lined bin as the flannels were tossed back used. Then he gave himself a perfunctory wash and felt much better for it.

John was still on all fours, chanting in a low voice.

“Fuck me, Alpha. Fuck me, Alpha….”

Sherlock was obliging, kneeling, fucking him from behind. Lestrade moved in front of John and grabbed him by the hair.

“Suck.”

John sucked Lestrade’s prick while Sherlock fucked his cunt. Out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade could see Mycroft, watching and stroking himself. Then Mycroft disappeared entirely from Lestrade’s vision.

Lestrade leaned forward slightly into John’s mouth.

“Fuck!”

Then he was leaning backwards into Mycroft’s tongue.

He rested a hand on each head and was rolling his hips back and forth. It was paradise, the wet, hard suck of John’s mouth, the teasing, wet probe of Mycroft’s tongue.

John pulled off just after Sherlock gave a loud grunt.

“My turn,” said Lestrade with a hand still on Mycroft’s head.

John spun ‘round and presented. Lestrade sank his prick into the dripping cunt and came in three violent thrusts.

Lestrade twisted at the waist and grinned at Mycroft, but then John was calling Mycroft’s name.

The Alphas ended up kneeling in a circle while John, like the hands of a clock, rotated, sucking their pricks and presenting his cunt for fucking. How long they did this, Lestrade wasn’t certain. He found himself blessed with a pheromonally-induced supernaturally short refractory period and came over and over. Sometimes Mycroft was on the other end of John, sometimes Sherlock. Sometimes, Mycroft’s fingers were in Lestrade’s arse, sometimes his tongue. Lestrade returned the favour whenever he wasn’t servicing, or being serviced, by John.

Finally, Mycroft drew Lestrade away and arranged them so that Lestrade was licking his balls while he was licking Lestrade’s. Then slicked fingers began to probe arseholes.

Lestrade couldn’t concentrate for long. He had to abandon the licking and finger-fucking and simply bury his face in Mycroft’s thigh and moan.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m so hard.”

Then there was a mouth on half his prick and a hand wrapped ‘round the other half.

Lestrade screamed, then bit savagely into the flesh nearest his teeth, which he would much later realise was Mycroft’s calf. He was coming so hard. He pinched his eyes shut and hung on.

And shattered.

* * *

Lestrade blinked.

Mycroft was cleaning his own face with a flannel.

“I came on you?” asked Lestrade incredulously.

“That was the much-desired outcome,” said Mycroft with a haggard smile. “You were, are, if I may indulge in a bit of vulgarity, an extraordinary fuck, Gregory.”

Lestrade looked over. Sherlock was fucking John, both oblivious to the world.

Good.

Lestrade looked back at Mycroft and crawled towards him and his erect prick. It was now or never, he thought.

“Fuck me, Mycroft.”

“I just did,” said Mycroft with a smirk as he threw the flannel in the bin.

“No, put your prick in me. Let me ride it.”

“No, Gregory.”

“Please. I can take it.”

“I don’t like the word ‘impossible,’ Gregory, but in this case, I think it applies. I cannot alter your biology or mine. It would harm you, and that would devastate me.”

Lestrade curled against Mycroft’s chest and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck and whispered in his ear.

“Please, My. I’m begging. Your little cockslut wants it so badly. Your filthy whore’s aching for it.”

“Gregory, please don’t beg…”

“Can I touch it?”

Mycroft chuckled. “You can touch any part of me, Gregory. I believe you have, in fact.”

Lestrade found the lubricant and slicked his hand very well, then he coated Mycroft’s prick and said,

“Just the tip?”

“Gregory…”

“Let’s play, My. Just play. Mount me, fuck me like an Omega. Just once. Just the tip. Just the head.”

WHAM!

The burn took Lestrade’s breath away, and he sincerely thought his eyes were in danger of popping out of his head.

“Is that what you wanted, you little tart?” hissed Mycroft. “That’s the head. You want to bleed? Here’s a bit more.”

Tears pooled in Lestrade’s eyes, then rolled down his cheeks. He couldn’t speak.

Then Mycroft quickly, and painfully, pulled out.

“I’m sorry, Gregory. I’m sorry…”

Lestrade licked his lips and fought for words. “It’s all right. Just a case of ‘be careful what you wish for.’ And my eyes and libido are much bigger than my, well, arse.”

Then he was being folded in Mycroft’s arms and more apologies were being whispered in his hair. He offered quiet reassurances in return.

“It’s all right, love. It’s all right.”

Lestrade looked over.

Incredibly, Sherlock was _still_ fucking John.

But just then Sherlock fell over, crumpling like a cowboy shot in the saddle.

“Sherlock?” called John.

But Sherlock didn’t move.

“Wake up. Sherlock!” called John.

Lestrade hurried to Sherlock’s side.“Sherlock, c’mon.”

Just then Mycroft appeared and held something under Sherlock’s nose.

“Ugh!” Sherlock startled and twitched. “Fat bastard! John?”

“I’m here. I’m okay,” said John.

“Old fashioned smelling salts,” explained Mycroft.

“How ‘bout a break?” asked Lestrade, rubbing his stubbly jaw. “I need a proper shower and a shave.”

“Perhaps I should make coffee,” suggested Mycroft.

“Coffee?!” Lestrade stared at Mycroft with utter confusion.

“Well, it is half nine,” Mycroft argued.

“In the morning?!” cried Lestrade incredulously.

“Yes,” said Mycroft with a smile. “We could, of course, have tea, but I think the situation requires something a bit more fortifying…”

Lestrade didn’t hear the rest. He turned his head and gawked at the windows, which had been covered with dark curtains since John’s heat began. He realised he had no notion of the passage of time, slow, quick, or otherwise.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “Coffee.”

John was nodding, too. Sherlock weakly raised a hand and mumbled, “Whatever.”

“Maybe I should cut the pie?” offered John. “To go with coffee?”

The Alphas all grunted their approval.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's taken this journey with me. May all your pies be as wonderful as John's!

Lestrade scrubbed himself, then just as he was rinsing and contemplating a second round of scrubbing, there was knock at the door.

“Yes?”

A whoosh of cool air. A shutting of the door.

“Coffee’s brewing. But might I kiss what’s hurt and make it better?”

Lestrade smiled and turned off the taps. He found lube and coated his hand. He bent over and stroked himself as Mycroft rimmed him. He came, then stood up and offered Mycroft the lube.

“I want to do you together.”

Lestrade watched their hands moving up and down, watched Mycroft’s prick lurch and spit.

“Do you want, uh…?” Lestrade gestured to the shower.

“No, I’ll use the basin,” said Mycroft. “Coffee’ll be ready soon.”

Lestrade leaned up and kissed Mycroft’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” answered Mycroft with a kiss to the ridge of Lestrade’s shoulder.

* * *

With a towel wrapped around his waist, Lestrade leaned into the wash basin and rinsed the razor for the last time. The second scrubbing and the shave had done him a world of good. He felt like a new man. And now there was the aroma of coffee wafting down the hall.

The aroma grew stronger until there was yet another knock at the bathroom door.

“If you come bearing gifts, enter,” called Lestrade as he patted his face with a towel. He took the steaming mug.

“Good morning,” said Mycroft as he leaned against the doorframe.

Lestrade sipped. Yes, as expected, it was very good coffee. “It is a good morning now,” said he with a sigh. “This is certain the stuff to give the troops. It will ll put hair on your chest.”

Mycroft hummed and sipped from his own mug, but not before casting a flattering glance at Lestrade’s bare torso. When he looked back, Lestrade winked at him. Mycroft blushed and looked away again.

They were flirting.

It such an ordinary moment in the middle of such an extraordinary event.

Lestrade had been puzzling over something in the shower, and there seemed no better moment to pose the question.

“Mycroft, do you think…?”

“I don’t know,” said Mycroft, answering the question before it was fully stated. “I don’t know if it is because of the heat, because of pheromones, because we’ve been thrown together in a bizarre situation. And the fact I don’t know is wholly unsatisfactory.”

“I liked you before, uh, I suppose, yesterday. I liked you a lot, but I didn’t crave you. Not like this. I didn’t, you know, want to hurt myself for the wanting of you. I wonder…”

“So do I.” Mycroft’s expression was suddenly sober. “But we shan’t know how we are going to feel until it’s over. For my part, I am terribly anxious that our cravings will lead us to make more unwise decisions.” He took a deep breath and shook his head, then added with a small smile. “Well, there’s pie when you’re ready.”

“Hallelujah!”

* * *

“Fabulous!” cried Lestrade, tucking into the pie with gusto.

“I have to agree, Doctor,” said Mycroft. “You are to be commended.”

“Thank you very much. The coffee’s great, too. Thanks for thinking of that, Mycroft. And everything else, too, of course, said John He was sitting in Sherlock’s lap, and before him on the table was a plate with a double portion of pie. He gave a shuddering little moan. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grunted.

Lestrade didn’t need to look beneath the table to know that Sherlock’s prick was buried in John’s cunt and that his hand was slowly stroking John’s prick.

John turned and offered Sherlock a heaping forkful of pie, which he dutifully ate.

And just like that, as Lestrade was washing down a sweet, tart, doughy, crusty glob with a mouthful of coffee, he knew John’s heat was over.

The maddening scent was gone, leaving only that of coffee and pie.

“Oh, thank God!” cried John who sprang out of Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock sat up. His face reflected Lestrade’s own surprised confusion. It was as if he’d been startled out of a mad dream.

They all exchanged silent glances.

Then John pulled his bathrobe fastidiously about his neck. “Well, this was something. Thank you for everything. Really, words can’t express how grateful I am.”

“Thank you from me, too.”

The words were spoken so softly that they might have been missed.

But Lestrade didn’t miss them, and he was certain Mycroft didn’t either.

* * *

Lestrade tucked the plastic container with the quarter of pie under his arm and looked up at the window.

He waved. John waved back.

“Can I offer you a ride, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade stared at Mycroft and the dark car for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I think I’ll take a walk, Mister Holmes.”

“Another time, though?” pressed Mycroft.

Lestrade smiled. “Definitely. Another time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
